


Secure

by Isagel



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bondage, Dominance, Held Down, Multi, Polyamory, Submission, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4457735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, it happens like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secure

**Author's Note:**

> An older fic I hadn't previously posted to the AO3. Written in 2010.

In the end, it happens like this.

He’s sitting between them on the couch in their living room, and he’s turned towards Elizabeth, mouth already open to say something clever about Peter’s taste, or lack thereof, in art (God knows their latest case has proven that the man will never understand the German expressionists), when she reaches out and plucks the glass of wine he’s holding from his fingers, setting it carefully down on the table. His words turn over in his throat, shatter on his tongue as he swallows back the sudden crashing wave of understandingfearhope _need_ and all that comes out as she looks at him, as she smiles, is a soft “Oh,” that floats ridiculous in the air between them while she leans over, leans in, her hand coming up to cup his jaw. Behind him, Peter hasn’t moved at all, but he feels suddenly closer, a presence at Neal’s back as palpable as El’s lips brushing his. He closes his eyes and lets her kiss him, slips his tongue against the full curve of her lower lip to invite her in. She comes eagerly, rising up on the leg she’s got curled beneath her on the couch to bend his head back, lick into the depths of his mouth, and he moans, dragging his tongue against hers. 

There are lips against the side of his neck, then: thinner, rougher lips and an edge of teeth that sends his pulse careening out of beat. Peter’s hands fall careful and solid on his shoulders, stroke down his upper arms and back again, the touch firm and reassuring. He’d sink back into it, if he weren’t also yearning forward towards Elizabeth.

El slides her palms flat over his chest, slow and appreciative, pushing outwards beneath the lapels of his jacket. And, _Christ_ , he’s doomed and done for, because they act in synch, Peter’s hands finishing what Elizabeth’s started, reaching around to grab his lapels from behind and tug his jacket off his shoulders. He goes with the motion, more than willing to stretch his hands behind his back to let Peter strip him of his clothes, the Devore peeling tight down the lengths of his arms. The left sleeve catches on the ball of his thumb, and Peter’s fingers close around his wrist, twisting his arm just enough to let him yank the fabric free. 

He isn’t expecting it, the sudden feel of Peter’s hand gripping him, fingertips pressing on his pulse point, and he shudders, head to toe, has to pull away from El’s mouth to breathe, because there’s no air any more, not enough for him to drag down his closed-up throat. She makes a soft noise and nibbles at the corner of his mouth, shifts to paint kisses along the line of his jaw, her fingers busy at the knot in his tie, untangling it. He just sits there, snatching for air, drowning in the lightness of her touch, in Peter’s hold on him, and it’s perfect, the moment vibrant like the colors on a Kandinsky. (The real thing, not his own copies that he has to admit were never quite _it_.)

But then Peter moves, turns to throw Neal’s jacket onto the near-by armchair, and his fingers slip away from Neal’s wrist. 

The loss is like a punch to the gut.

“Don’t…” he says.

Elizabeth pulls back instantly, her hands and lips vanishing from his skin.

“Neal, honey?” she says, her face a soft frown of concern. “Are you all right? Do you want us to stop?”

He has to laugh at that.

“Elizabeth, I’ve wanted you to do this since the first time I came here and you opened the door.”

She smiles, fond memory washing warm over her features.

“Then you’ve got me beat by about twenty minutes,” she says, and he remembers Peter coming downstairs, finding them together in the living room. All the time since then. The thought makes his mouth dry with too many emotions. There is still a note of worry in Elizabeth’s voice, though, when she says: “But then what…?”

“I think he was talking to me,” Peter says, voice so close to his ear, and his thumb slides over Neal’s, up beneath the cuff of his shirt, stroking at the jut of bone on the side of his wrist. It hits Neal that he hadn’t even realized that he’d stayed with his hands behind his back, like a criminal waiting to be cuffed; holding the position he’d been put in as if not allowed to move. He lets his head tip back towards Peter, exposing the line of his neck. He’s never wanted anything like he wants to stay where Peter’s put him, like he wants Peter to keep him there. Peter’s lips skim along the edge of his ear, his thumb rubbing at Neal’s wrist like a promise. “Tell me, Neal,” he says.

Neal has never known how not to respond to that tone of his voice.

“Don’t let go,” he says. And because it feels like a necessity: “Please.”

“Oh, _Neal_ ,” Elizabeth says, laying her hand light on his cheek. Peter’s fingers curl around his wrists. Tight. Secure. “We’ve got you.”

When he flexes his arms, testing - because he always finds the loose bar in every cage - Peter holds him harder, tugs him still.

“Don’t fidget,” he says, rough. Grumpiness a veneer over something that burns along Neal’s spine.

He breathes out a long, shivering breath, lets himself bend towards the piercing blue of Elizabeth’s eyes above him, the trail of her fingers down his throat. Lets himself calm.

There’s no escape.


End file.
